


Organised Chaos

by jusrecht



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Idk what happened, M/M, Post-Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, halp, this ship just took over my brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: In which Graves finds refuge in Newt’s suitcase and Newt has a salamander named Percival.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Organised Chaos - Организованный хаос](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10099961) by [Altra_Realta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altra_Realta/pseuds/Altra_Realta)



Newt finds him at the edge of the snowfield, staring at pools of glowing blue in the great stretch of white. 

 

The man has noticed his approach. “Mr Scamander.” He rises to his feet, rigid and graceful at once, such a mass of contradictions that words curl up and die on Newt’s tongue. “I apologise for being here without your permission.”

 

 _It’s alright,_ Newt wants to say, but no, not really, because when he returned to his temporary office and found his suitcase lying on the floor instead of standing upright against the desk where he had left it, he felt sick to the bones. The horde of horrifying thoughts that soon followed was not nothing either. So he only nods—and Graves sees through it.

 

“I really apologise, I just need to–” He stops abruptly. The lines of his face tighten as he stands straight, shoulders squared. “There is really no excuse I can give for this shameful breach of privacy. I have behaved most inappropriately, and if you wish to submit a formal complaint–”

 

“No,” Newt hears himself interrupting, alarmed by the idea. “Please. It’s alright.”

 

“No, it’s not,” is the stiff, almost angry reply. The Head of Magical Law Enforcement Department looks exactly like the Head of Magical Law Enforcement Department who is about to enforce the law. Newt is suddenly reminded to his school days and a Gryffindor prefect who used to terrify him with his loud voice and distressing habit to make Newt the object of his ridicule until, of course, he knew better, after a breathless kiss in an empty classroom.

 

“I mean,” he tries again, the words sounding brittle out of his dry mouth, “there is no need for such a drastic measure. It’s really quite alright. At least this once. I would appreciate if next time, maybe you could wait for me before…”

 

“Of course,” the other man answers curtly. “Please accept my apology nonetheless. I will leave you now.”

 

“Wait.” Newt almost steps forward, almost puts his hand on the black coat, immaculate even so late in the day. “If you want– I mean, please stay, Mr Graves. Since you’re already here.”

 

Graves hesitates. “Are you sure I won’t be an imposition?”

 

“No.” Newt manages a smile, although not quite a look in the eye. “I don’t mind. As a matter of fact, do you want to meet them?”

 

“Them?”

 

Newt falls to one knee, snow and cold and wet seeping into the thin material of his pants. He murmurs a spell to make a flicker of flame dance on the tip of his wand. It strengthens by increments, until it burns steadily, a delicate source of warmth. His hand does not shake, not even when Graves follows his example and kneels next to him. For this, Newt is grateful.

 

Only seconds later, the pair of blue lights in the field start to stir, moving in their direction, parting snow as they approach. Newt smiles. Their love, their trust to him is a song that caresses his soul and never ends.

 

“Are they…?” Graves sounds a little uncertain—a surprise, coming from the stern, self-assured Auror.

 

“Frost salamanders, yes.” Newt raises his wand, creating a mirage of dancing lights and shadows. “I found them being auctioned by an illegal underground ring in Istanbul. Kept in a crate with a few blocks of ice inside it. A totally barbaric treatment.”

 

“How did you acquire them?”

 

Newt turns away, flushing slightly, tripping over his tale. He is not used to being a storyteller, but then again, he is not used to people coming to his haven uninvited either. The other man has been here twice, in the three months of their tentative acquaintanceship. In those two previous occasions, he wore the mantle of his officialdom tightly, not a crease, not a crack visible. Today is different.

 

Halfway into the story, stuttering over some embarrassing details, Newt wishes that he could not sense a wounded animal so well. But it is difficult to cling to his embarrassment when the thin line of Graves’ mouth twitches into a smile. His shoulders lose some of their stiffness and the line of tension that is his spine relaxes slightly as Newt nears the end of his tale—with a timely help from a pair of angry occamies to render the rest of the illegal traders unconscious.

 

“The blue glow,” Graves is watching the salamanders chasing each other in a spark of flames, “is it fire?”

 

“Not quite. More like fire inverted.”

 

“So it’s ice?”

 

“It feels like fire, but it’s cold.”

 

Graves looks at him in surprise. “You can touch it?”

 

“Not for long, or I’ll get a frostbite.” Newt winces at the unpleasant memory. “Do you want to try? Just not too long.”

 

Graves confronts the challenge the way he confronts everything else, with single-minded intensity. Soon, he has them nuzzling the valley of his palm. There is a soft gasp, then a quiet bark of a laugh, as if startled out of him.

 

Newt tries not to stare, heart in his throat.

 

“It feels ticklish,” Graves murmurs.

 

Newt launches on a rambling explanation. The nature of the ice-flame. The span of its life. The temperature to keep the creature on this side of survival. Graves listens with his eyes half-closed, face open. In some ways, it’s almost flattering that a man like Graves finds peace and healing in the constraints of Newt’s suitcase. He remembers when they found him, a broken man, a wraith of his former self. The next few weeks would have seen Newt back at his creatures’ side, away from the cares of the wizarding world as usual, if it had not been for Pickett.

 

Pickett, who clung to the barely coherent Graves and would not let go. It took Newt one whole confused day to discover that the Auror had been kept harmless using potions containing the sap of birch trees.

 

Pickett’s home tree was a birch.

 

Thus began the odd entanglement. To his relief, Graves seemed to tolerate Pickett’s presence, perhaps even becoming rather fond of him as days went by in the bowtruckle’s company. In fact, he looked almost disappointed when any residue of the potion was finally flushed out of his system and Pickett took his leave.

 

That was when Newt extended an invitation to visit his creatures. Newt Scamander may have never been one for his own species, but he has watched a man silently pick up the pieces of himself, putting them back together again into a relative whole through sheer determination and it's... admirable. Just like the perseverance of many magical creatures.

 

Graves returned to duty only a week later. Newt welcomed his visit in the week after. Pickett was ecstatic.

 

“I think that’s enough.” Newt touches the sleeve of his coat in warning, just above his wrist. Graves’ response is to seize Newt’s wrist instead, his fingers a painful steel clamp digging into bones. Newt gasps, freezes, glances up only to find dark, wild eyes on him. For a moment, he wonders if he had been taken for a fool and this were Grindelwald instead of Graves.

 

Then the pressure is gone, as abruptly as it has come. Newt takes one step back, holding his wrist, his thoughts a frantic whirl.

 

“I’m sorry.” The severity has returned to Graves’ voice. He sounds even more brusque in apology. “I wasn’t thinking.”

 

Newt shakes his head but says nothing; instead, he raises his eyes, and the sight of Graves standing in front of him like a proud statue makes him think, absurdly, of a scarecrow. Battered and alone under its brightly coloured armour—or in this case, impeccable set of suit and coat.

 

He thinks maybe that’s why he opens his mouth and asks, “Are you sure you’re alright, Mr Graves?”

 

 

–

 

 

The question catches him off guard.

 

Percival is a careful man. Prudence and control are two habits that have carried him so far and so high in life. The loss of both in the hand of one man was more than a wake-up call.

 

And now, Newt Scamander proves that he may just be as bad as Grindelwald, if not more.

 

Percival blames the ghastly day. It has been a series of catastrophes, one after another since sunrise. A rogue witch, a terror attempt in Washington DC, another in Chicago, a clash between two families that potentially escalated into an all-out clan war—all sources of headache for the Director of Magical Security. And he still has another meeting later at six to discuss the rise of hard-liner groups and increasing death threats to No-Majs across the country.

 

He did not mean to go into the suitcase. Percival dropped by Scamander’s office for a completely different reason, namely to consult him on the nature of Kelpies now that there have been reports of multiple sightings down in the coast of Maine. As to how he ended up climbing into the suitcase instead, well…

 

He has been here twice before, drowning in the organised chaos that defines the place. After long months in captivity, he knows he has lost more than a few pieces of himself. The chaos calms him. The creatures largely ignore him and that is fine too. Perhaps, in some irrational parts of his mind, he thinks he will be able to find those missing pieces in this suitcase full of treasures.

 

He finds, instead, a shy, tentative smile. Of all things that strike him about Newt Scamander (and they are plenty), he finds it most bewildering how unaware the young man is—of himself, of his surrounds, of anything other than creatures. It’s as if he lives in a different plane, untouched by the world beyond that in his own head. In return, most of the world ignores him, this powerful, intelligent wizard with an army of magical creatures ready to do his bidding.

 

The same wizard is now stealing glances at him, waiting for his answer.

 

Percival takes a deep breath. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine, thank you. It’s just a difficult time at work.”

 

Scamander nods, waving his wand to create a small shower of snow, to the delight of the salamanders. “Have you considered,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the lounging creatures, “that it might be too soon after your ordeal?”

 

“I want to keep busy.” Percival hears the defensive note in his voice, too late to rectify. He clears his throat. “Besides, there is so much to do.”

 

Scamander frowns. “I often find that magical creatures are wiser than humans, especially in matters like this. Take Percival here, for example.”

 

Percival stares. “Excuse me?”

 

“His name.” Scamander nods at the quiet pair of salamanders. “The one on top. It’s Percival. He was in a pretty bad shape when I found him. For weeks, he just buried himself under the snow and wouldn’t come out. I had to constantly lower the temperature around here to speed up his healing process and make sure that he survived.”

 

Percival thinks how… _not_ odd it is to discover that Scamander doesn’t even know his full name, or perhaps simply doesn’t remember. He watches, half-amused, as Scamander continues talking—how creatures know to stay away and rest until they are properly healed. Humans, he says with a sigh, are so incorrigible.

 

Percival feels a twitch of a smile on his lips. “Perhaps Percival here is indeed wiser.”

 

The younger man’s face reddens. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says hastily. “Please don’t take offence. It’s just that your job carries a lot of pressure, so maybe it’s not a good idea to push yourself too hard too soon. Not that it’s any of my business.” He shifts further away and Percival firmly squashes an urge to follow. “I think I’ll just stay quiet now. Or do you want me to leave?”

 

“Mr Scamander,” he says dryly, “this is your suitcase.”

 

Scamander bites his lips, until a soft, awkward laugh breaks free out of the restraint. “Right, yes, of course,” he mutters, smiling, and maybe it’s a trick of the light, or a chance angle that flatters that particular slant of his cheeks, but Percival finds that he cannot look away.

 

“As a matter of fact,” he hears himself saying a moment later, “I have a meeting in ten minutes. But afterwards, I wonder if I might buy you dinner. For an apology. There are plenty of good restaurants around here. And I also need to talk to you about Kelpies.”

 

Scamander looks at him in surprise. Graves cannot remember the young man holding his gaze for any length of time before. The fact that he is now, at this particular moment, speaks more than any amount of words.

 

“I’d like that, Mr Graves.” Except, apparently, these particular five, spoken so softly before Scamander looks away once more, eyes hidden under the messy sweep of hair.

 

Percival tries not to smile too widely.

 

“Percival,” he tells him. “Might as well, since you already call the little fella by that name.”

 

Realisation dawns and Scamander— _Newt_ —gapes, eyes wide, cheeks flushed in mortification. Percival takes that image and carries it with him for the rest of the day.

 

_**End** _

 


End file.
